


Imagine the Christmas Dinners

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Christmas prompts, Chronologically questionable, Drunken Confessions, Ficlets, Fluff, Gift Giving, Gladstone the Dog, Humor, Multi, Parentlock, References to the Grinch, Winter, mildly injured John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-04 14:17:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 14,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5337185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The more the merrier, I always say. A series of Christmas-themed ficlets, featuring Sherlock, John and Mary over the years, with appearances by Baby Watson, Mummy Holmes, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shopping for Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> These are based on the tumblr prompts ["25 Days of Fic-mas."](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com/post/134308673979/25-days-of-fic-mas) Each chapter title is that day's prompt. 
> 
> I realize that readers may be trying to place these ficlets in some sort of chronological order, but even though they are all set in the same Johnlockary universe, they aren't set in the same year. A number of them are set the year of Alice's first Christmas, then a bunch more are when she's 4 or 5, then there are a few where she's even older. And they jump around rather than progressing in time in an orderly manner. So I guess what I'm saying is I'm not a very linear person and I apologize to those of you who are. :)

"He's going to know." John glanced over his shoulder, as if Sherlock might have followed them across town to the animal rescue shelter.

"No, he won't, John." Mary gave his hand a squeeze. "Relax. You're making the dogs nervous."

"How am I—" John forced his fists to unclench and his shoulders to soften, just in case she was right. There was certainly enough howling and barking coming from the kennels; maybe the dogs were picking up on his tension. "I still think he's a cat person," he said, and raised his hand to let an underfed shepherd sniff at his fingers.

"Redbeard," Mary said, and John nodded. Sherlock had certainly mumbled the name enough when he was drugged out of his mind in hospital the second time, so much so that Mycroft had finally relented and told them what it meant.

None of the dogs here looked anything like an Irish Setter, though, and John was starting to entertain the idea of giving up and finding a breeder instead when Mary caught her breath and whispered his name. "That one," she told him, pointing to a stumpy bulldog mix that was wagging its rear end enthusiastically without actually bothering to stand up. Someone had tied a bow onto its collar in an attempt to make it look festive.

John wrinkled his nose. "Doesn't look much like a Sherlock-type dog." He'd imagined something taller and thinner. 

Mary giggled. "No, he looks more like you."

John turned toward her. "I'm not—"

"No, no, I know." She slid her arm around his waist. "You're much cuter, don't worry. But since Sherlock won't move in with us so he can see you every morning when he wakes up, this is probably the next best thing, don't you think? A puppy who will worship the ground he walks on in your absence?"

John snorted. "That's no puppy. That dog is as middle-aged as I am."

"Exactly." Mary beamed at him and he knew she had won. He sighed and reached through the kennel's bars to give the dog a scratch. The dog snuffled and gave his palm a lick and John had to admit that it was pretty cute.


	2. Hot Cocoa

"Uncle Sherlock, Uncle Sherlock!"

Sherlock put his left hand out to stop Alice from coming closer while he poured the boiling water into the mugs and then turned his attention to her, trying to pinpoint why she was so suddenly agitated.

"Daddy doesn't make the hot chocolate like that!"

He glanced over at the mugs with their twin mounds of sweetened cocoa powder slowly dissolving beneath the hot water. "How does Daddy make it?"

"Daddy puts the milk in first." Alice put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips, tipping her head up to get a clear view of the worktop. "Mummy does it like you did but hers tastes better than yours because she puts cinnamon in."

Sherlock stared down at her, copying her pose. "Well, Mummy and Daddy aren't here, are they? So if you want hot chocolate you'll have to drink it the way I make it." He ventured a smile at the end, to soften the no doubt crushing news that her beverage would not be exactly to her specifications. As bad as her father, this little one was; John always complained about too much sugar or the mug not being sterilized to his standards before use.

Alice sighed and dropped her hands to her sides, then crossed the kitchen to climb into a chair at the table. She pushed this morning's breakfast dishes away and settled herself expectantly. "Why didn't you go away with Mummy and Daddy, Uncle Sherlock?"

Sherlock stirred one of the mugs to encourage the powder to dissolve fully. "Mummy and Daddy are on an anniversary trip. It's to celebrate that they've been married for five years now."

"Like a birthday for their wedding? Don't forget the milk!" 

"I won't," Sherlock assured her, and headed to the refrigerator, which he had specially cleaned and emptied of everything but food products as a condition of being permitted to watch Alice for the week. "Yes, it is like a birthday for their wedding. Though I'm not sure that they'll get any cake."

"Will they have presents? What will they do all day instead of eating cake?"

Sherlock pulled the milk out and let the fridge door swing shut. "They might have presents. And, er. I suspect they'll just spend their time relaxing."

Alice turned to look at him, wrinkling her nose. "That sounds boring. What will they do in a hotel all day? Just lie around in bed together I bet." She shook her head and pulled the tray of biscuits that Mrs. Hudson had made toward her. 

Sherlock dribbled milk into the mugs and said, "Well, Mummy and Daddy are probably very tired from working all the time so they might just want to take a lot of naps together." That should end her curiosity before this conversation got too awkward. Alice was vehemently opposed to napping of any sort.

"So why didn't you go with them then, Uncle Sherlock?

"Sorry, what?" He turned away from the worktop to look at her.

Alice didn't bother returning his gaze; she was too focused on lining up the biscuits, presumably to select the largest one. "Well, you take naps in bed with Mummy and Daddy sometimes, right?"

"I—what?" He'd only ever been with John and Mary when they were certain Alice was asleep for the night.

Alice selected a biscuit and bit into it, looking thoughtful. "Well, maybe you don't take naps. Maybe you stay awake. But I've heard you making grown-up noises in their bedroom sometimes."

Sherlock froze, but Alice didn't notice. She chewed on her biscuit, letting crumbs fall onto the table and the floor around her. Sherlock took a deep breath and picked up the mugs of hot chocolate. Only four more days. Then John and Mary would be back and he could turn over Alice and her far-too-perceptive questions and observations to them.


	3. Winter Wonderland

Sherlock put his hands in his coat pockets and leaned back against the lamppost, watching Mary as she shoveled several inches of light snow off the pavement in front of the Watsons' house. "Definitely from someplace snowier than England," he said. 

"Give up," Mary replied, and sent a shovelful in his direction. "You're not going to guess."

"I never guess," he told her, and glanced over at the small square of white lawn where John was holding the baby upright for her first taste of winter. 

And taste it was: Alice stuck her mittened hand into the fluffy pile in front of her and then brought it up to her mouth. John tried to stop her but she squealed and whacked him in the nose, sending crystallized flakes into his hair. Mary laughed and leaned on her shovel. "A little snow won't hurt her, John. It's clean enough."

John wiped at his face and tried again to get Alice's hand away from her mouth. "It's all polluted, even if it looks clean."

Mary rolled her eyes and looked at Sherlock. "See what I have to put up with?"

"I know." Sherlock raised his eyebrows and flapped his hands without taking them out of his pockets. "I know. He's no fun at all."

"No fun?" John picked up Alice and spun her in a circle, which effectively distracted her from eating the snow. "I'm the one playing while Mummy's working and Uncle Sherlock is just standing around, right, Alice?"

Alice shrieked happily in reply and Sherlock glanced at Mary, saw her make the same decision as he did. She dropped the shovel and he pulled his hands from his pockets and they both reached down for handfuls of snow. Sherlock elected to simply scoop a pile of it and toss it toward John, which gave him the element of surprise. Mary took a moment longer to shape it into a ball and aim it at her husband; it caught him in the ear as he was still sputtering from the indignity of Sherlock's attack.

Alice was in the crossfire but didn't seem to mind because it gave her more opportunity to coat herself in snow and shove her hands into her mouth. Soon they were all on their knees in the yard, pushing and feathering piles of snow at one another while they laughed and panted and their cheeks grew red with cold and exertion. Finally it became too much; Alice was the first to cry and the adults immediately came to their senses. They stood up and brushed each other off and headed for the front door.

"I hate snow," Mary said, stomping her boots on the doormat. "Let's move someplace warm and reinvent ourselves."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Someplace with a beach so Alice can eat the sand."

"Nope." John handed Alice to Mary and then hugged them both tight with his left arm, pulling Sherlock close with his right. "The snow will be gone in a day or two, but we are all staying right here. Together."

Sherlock leaned into the group embrace and blinked his eyes closed for a moment, feeling flecks of ice shift in his eyelashes. Yes, that was a good idea. They would all stay here, together.


	4. Christmas Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... it turns out I can go three days before I switch from writing fluff to a bit of angst. Enjoy!

There was a lovely photo of the four of them, a beautiful slice of their domestic life, snapped by Mrs. Hudson while they were baking gingerbread men: John rolling the dough, Mary cutting it into shapes, Sherlock and little Alice decorating each biscuit. It would have made a very nice card, the perfect holiday image of the strange little family they had formed. 

Sherlock objected first. It wasn't a very dignified picture, after all. He had flour on his jacket and a smile in his eyes and he couldn't possibly send such an image to former clients and detectives at the Yard who knew him as a logical crime-solving investigator. 

And much as Mary loved the photo, she balked when she realized how widely it might circulate amongst Sherlock's professional contacts. Most likely there was no one left who would recognize her from before, but she wasn't comfortable taking even the slightest risk, not over something as insignificant as a Christmas card.

But John. John was the one who was truly opposed. It just wasn't done. Father, mother, child: there were three people in the Watson household, not four. Sherlock wasn't part of the family, not by any legal standards, and what went on behind closed doors between three consenting adults wasn't the business of anyone else, not distant relations or casual acquaintances or co-workers and clients. Maybe someday he would be brave enough to show the world, but not yet. Not this year.

So they took another photo, just Alice in her fanciest dress this time, and signed only the Watson names, and Sherlock placed an order for a box of respectably business-like seasonal greetings to give to his associates who might need cases solved in the coming year, and in the end, they sent separate Christmas cards.


	5. Ghosts of Christmas Past

Mrs. Holmes opened the front door and greeted her baby boy with a hug before he could protest. Behind him on the walk stood John and then Mary, holding the baby on her hip. How different from last Christmas, which had ended with so much unpleasantness, but Mrs. Holmes was going to make sure history did not repeat itself this year.

"Come in, come in. Come out of the cold." She stepped back to allow them all room to climb the steps and enter the house, but didn't move out of the way to let them pass farther inside. "Take off your coat, Sherlock."

"Yes, Mum." He rolled his eyes at her and rather than glaring she smiled and helped him remove the Belstaff, which had the effect of turning him from his usual graceful self to a bit of a clumsy boy again. Her smile widened and she said, "And now your suit jacket, please."

"What? No, Mum. It's always too chilly in here."

"Your jacket, Sherlock," she repeated, and tugged at his lapel. He glanced past her at his father but grudgingly complied when he found no support there. Mrs. Holmes grabbed the jacket from him the moment it cleared his arms.

"What are you doing?" 

The fact that he couldn't figure it out immediately cheered her more than it probably should have, but then she'd always secretly wanted her boys to be very smart but just a tad less clever than she herself was. She checked each of the jacket's pockets before handing it to her husband and taking a step closer to Sherlock so she could pat him down. He tried to flinch backward at her touch but John was standing too close behind him and he nearly stumbled. "What are you--for God's sake Mum, what do you think I'm trying to sneak past you?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. Last year it was poison, and I'll not stand for being drugged again." She slipped her hands into his trouser pockets and for a second she thought he would push her away but he just sighed dramatically and told her she was being ridiculous.

"It wasn't poison. It was just a small sedative."

"It was disrespectful, is what it was, and look what a mess it led to." She shook her head at the memory; Sherlock's name in the news for all the wrong reasons again, and then he almost got himself exiled despite his brother's best efforts. "All right, you're clean. You can come in. Don't you laugh at him, John Watson, you're next. Take off that jumper."

John stared at her for a moment until Mary poked him in the side and he did as she asked. Now Sherlock was protesting again. "Mum, no. You can't search our guests."

"Watch me. Sorry, John," she said as she ran a hand up along his side into his armpit. "I don't mean to make you uncomfortable but I do need to make sure. Don't think I don't know where that gun came from last year. I'd have my husband pat you down but I'm afraid he might miss something. If you pull up your trouser legs to the knee and turn out the pockets I'll say that's good enough, hmm?"

John obeyed readily enough; she had to marvel just a bit at the thought of what his life with Sherlock and Mary must be like that he didn't even blink at her requests. When she was satisfied he carried nothing more illicit than a festive handkerchief and his reading glasses she let him pass and turned to Mary and the baby, arms outstretched. "Oh, she's gotten so big. Let me hold her."

Mary handed the baby over with the willingness of overtired mums everywhere, and Mrs. Holmes bounced Alice twice in the air and then handed her off to John. She turned back to Mary. "Coat off, and I'll need to see the nappy bag, too."

"I didn't drug anyone last year," Mary objected. "I was drugged." Mrs. Holmes put her hands on her hips and tipped her head down to meet Mary's gaze and after a very short staring match Mary shrugged out of her coat. 

"Good girl." Mrs. Holmes smiled at her. "I can't say I understand exactly the relationship you have with my son, Mary, but I know there's more to it than meets the eye, and you're not as innocent as you pretend to be. Now let's get this over with so we can have a nice Christmas." Last year they'd never even got to have dinner, never mind open presents; this year she was taking no chances.


	6. Naughty and Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope no one is judging these based on how much they actually have to do with Christmas. :)

"Mummy, why are you going to spank Uncle Sherlock? Was he naughty?"

Mary nearly fell off the sofa at the sound of Alice's voice. She dropped backwards onto the cushion, so she was simply sitting facing Sherlock instead of kneeling provocatively against him. In the armchair across from them, John closed his legs and slipped the handcuffs down beside his thigh, out of Alice's sight.

Luckily, everyone was still fully dressed; they never took their clothes off outside of the bedroom, knowing that a closed door would give them a few extra seconds should Alice ever wake up and wander down the hall. But she'd been sound asleep when Mary checked on her a little while ago, so after a couple of glasses of wine tonight's little role play had started in the living room.

Sherlock recovered most quickly; he popped up from his seat and strode across the room to lift Alice into his arms. "Mummy was just joking, Alice. She said she was going to spank me if I didn't go to bed on time."

"Are you sleeping here tonight?"

"Yep." He kissed her forehead and started down the hall. "And I'm going to bed soon, so you should be in bed, too."

Mary breathed a sigh of relief that Alice didn't protest or ask any more questions as Sherlock carried her back to her bedroom. And thank God they'd done up the spare room as Sherlock's supposed bedroom for when he stayed over. She glanced over at John, who smirked at her and stood up from the chair. He stepped across the room, stopping in front of her, and dangled the handcuffs inches from her face. "So if Sherlock hasn't been naughty, who am I supposed to use these on?"

Mary grinned and reached up to pull John down on top of her. "Something tells me he's going to want you to use them on him, even if he has been nice."


	7. The Nutcracker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I really know nothing about the ballet, this happened instead.

John pushed open the door to the Baker Street flat, ready to pick up his daughter after an afternoon spent Christmas shopping with Mary. He caught a look at the state of the rooms in front of him and brought a hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose. He'd almost forgotten the feeling of dread mixed with intrigue that came with discovering Sherlock had done something so stupidly unexpected. At least this time it wasn't something obviously dangerous; Alice had no food allergies that they were aware of. "Sherlock, why is the flat covered in nuts?" 

Sherlock looked up from his desk, which had a variety of almonds in various stages of shelling spread across it. The coffee table held only walnuts; some of them were still intact while others appeared to have been pulverized. "Alice wanted a snack," he said, as if it should have been perfectly obvious.

"So you decided ten pounds of nuts was the way to go?" He put his hands in his pockets and raised his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation. Alice was curled up asleep in Sherlock's chair, apparently not hungry enough to eat every hazelnut, pecan and Brazil nut in a three-mile radius.

Sherlock sighed and leaned back in his chair, letting an almond that he'd been trying to pry apart with his fingernails fall back onto the pile on the desk. He picked up a pen to scratch a notation on a sheet of paper that sat under the nuts and said, "She wanted to use her toy nutcracker." He waved a hand at the wooden soldier sitting on the edge of the desk. "It doesn't really open anything but peanuts."

"No, I imagine it wouldn't." John came all the way into the room, peeked into the kitchen. More nuts. Of course.

"She wanted more than just peanuts, though. So I found this antique that Mrs. Hudson had." He pointed to a cast-iron contraption with a handle that lifted and lowered to crack a nut held in place like a vise. "Which works very well on the soft shells, but won't open the macadamias."

"Macadamia nuts are expensive, Sherlock. Why are you feeding them to a four-year-old?"

Sherlock shrugged. "She prefers the walnuts, it turns out. Which open best with this traditional hand-held nutcracker." He picked up the steel implement, the plier-shaped tool that John usually associated with the actual opening of shelled nuts. "Alice isn't strong enough to use it herself, but she quite enjoyed using the picks to dig out all the pieces once I opened the shells for her."

"I can imagine. So you're blaming the mess on her, then?"

Sherlock blew a stray lock of hair away from his eyes, and tilted his head back to look up at John. "Well, ultimately, it was her idea...."

John laughed. "No way. She fell asleep and you decided to conduct an experiment on the best way to open six different types of nuts. Can't blame that on a kid, can you?"

"Technically—"

"Nope." John grabbed a handful of shelled almonds and popped them into his mouth before crossing to lift the sleeping Alice out of the chair. "Thanks for watching her," he said, around the mouthful of nuts. "We'll be back tomorrow to help decorate for the party. Make sure everything's cleaned up by then."


	8. Baking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to be having a little trouble remembering these are supposed to be Christmas-themed. :)

He thought they were being careful, the three of them together, but one afternoon, not long after Mary and John had left, Mrs. Hudson caught Sherlock lounging about wearing nothing but his dressing gown. Which shouldn't have been any sort of tip-off, but the look she gave him said otherwise.

"It's Wednesday, isn't it?" she said. "You're looking refreshed. Already had your visit with John and Mary then?"

Refreshed. What was she on about? Sherlock felt like he could sleep for weeks. He mumbled something at her and waited for her to leave.

"Every Wednesday, isn't it?"

He sat up a little on the sofa and narrowed his eyes at her. How could she know? They used John's old bedroom upstairs. She was eighty years old; there was no way she could hear them.

"It's only that I hear them come in every time, and it's always when their little one is off at school, and you never go out on cases on Wednesday mornings...."

This was unbearable; it was like being questioned by his mum. Worse than his mum; Mrs. Hudson acted more like a grandmother, with her tea and her biscuits and her apron.... "Baking!" he shouted.

"I'm sorry?"

"Mary likes to bake bread. They come over for baking." It wasn't a very convincing tale, but his mind was still mostly offline after this morning.

"Baking?" Mrs. Hudson giggled. "Is that what you kids call it now?"

"What happened to live and let live, Mrs. Hudson?" He pulled his dressing gown tighter across his chest, made sure it was belted securely.

"Oh, I'm not judging you, dear. That doesn't mean I don't want to hear the gossip about it. All three of you like to bake—together?"

"Yes, we all bake together. Is that really so hard to believe?"

"Oh, no. I just thought. Well. I know you and John used to bake together in the old days."

"That is patently untrue."

"Oh, come now, Sherlock. It's okay."

"Mrs. Hudson, I assure you, without Mary to act as a...leavening agent, John and I would never have baked together."

"Oh." She furrowed her brow for a moment, then frowned. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

He waved a hand at her. "Don't be. I was never very interested in...culinary matters until the two of them offered to show me how to bake."

"Really? A handsome man like you? Must have had plenty of offers to go into the kitchen."

This conversation had officially gone too far. "Don't you have some baking of your own to do?"

"No, Mr. Chatterjee is—"

"Baking," Sherlock cut in. He flopped back down onto the sofa. "Biscuits. We need biscuits. Chocolate, I think." For some reason he was hungry now. He closed his eyes and waited for her to leave.


	9. Making a Christmas List

**JOHN'S LIST**

**Alice:** walkie talkies (pink or purple, no princesses)  
**Mary:** necklace like that one Cath has that she likes  
Massage gift certificate. Couples massage? Also S???  
**Sherlock:** would he go for a massage? With us?  
**Mrs. Hudson:** smoke alarms  


**MARY'S LIST**

**Alice:** Anna  & Elsa dolls  
Walking/Talking Pinkie Pie pony  
Anything not pink or sparkly. Something Star Wars?  
**John:** laptop, Windows 10? Downgrade to 7? Mac?  
(from Alice): Darth Vader "I am your father" mug  
**Sherlock:** ???? rings. ????? talk to John!  
(from Alice): photo frame she made in school  
**Mr & Mrs Holmes:** good wine, not that free stuff Sherlock has  
**Alice's teacher:** make cookies, no nuts  
**Work:** chocolates from PTA fundraiser, should arrive this week?

**SHERLOCK's LIST**

**Mum & Dad: **that wine no one likes that I got from that case in Italy  
**Mycroft:** also wine  
**Molly:** lab coat to replace one I set on fire  
**Mrs. Hudson:** new smoke detector (get at least two)  
**Alice:** Butterfly Garden Kit  
**John & Mary:** Words. They need words this year. Tell them the words. Just say it. Write them down? Tell them.


	10. Scrooge

"I give up." John stormed out of Sherlock's bedroom, rounding on Mary, who was waiting with the baby, ready to leave for the party. "You try, if you want. He won't listen to a word I say, the stubborn bastard."

Mary handed Alice over to John. "I'll try. What exactly is his objection?"

John shook his head. "No idea. He's always been a bit of a Scrooge when it comes to Christmas, but I've never seen him outright refuse like this."

Mary sighed and went down the hall to Sherlock's room. She knocked and then opened the door without waiting for a reply. 

He was sitting on his bed in the dark, still wearing his dressing gown over an old t-shirt and jogging bottoms. "Not going," he said.

Mary flicked on the lights and crossed the room. "Yes, you are. Your parents are expecting us, and we're not going to show up without you."

He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. God, he was more childish than Alice sometimes. 

"Come on, Sherlock. What's the problem? We were there last year." Okay, maybe that wasn't the best line of reasoning to take. But Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were willing to allow them all into their home again, and they had already said they were coming and it would be bad manners not to show up at this point. "Don't you think we owe it to your mum to try to give her the holiday she missed out on last year?"

Sherlock sniffed and raised his eyebrows at her. "Are you trying to blame that on me?"

"Well, yes? You are the one who drugged us all and then ran off and...you know."

"I did it for you, Mary. So you and John could be happy. I thought you understood that."

"Oh, love, I do understand that." She sat down next to him on his bed, put her arm around him, sliding her nails over the silky fabric of his dressing gown. "We're all right now, you and me, right?" 

"Of course we are." He leaned into her touch. "Do you and John have plans for later this evening?"

"Nope." She scooted away, putting a few inches of space between them. "You're not changing the topic that easily."

Sherlock moved with her, stretching to rest his head on her shoulder. "But that's the problem, you see."

"What is?"

"You. Me. John. Us."

"We're a problem?"

"Yes."

"Explain, please." She stroked the back of his hand but tried to keep it comforting rather than erotic.

Sherlock sighed. "If the three of us go to my parents' house for Christmas dinner, they're going to know."

"Mm, no they won't, Sherlock. Because you're not going to sprawl all over me and John like this. You're just going to act like your normal, aloof and rude self and no one will suspect a thing."

"Mum will know. She always knows everything. And Dad—he seems like a kind old man but he actually is a bit obsessed with sex. He'll know."

"Oh, God. Sherlock. I do not need to know that about your father." She moved farther away from him on the bed, brought one leg up to sit facing him. "Trust me, you know how good I am at hiding things, and you're the same way. John's the only one of us who can't lie with a straight face. We'll just put him in charge of the baby before dinner, then stuff him full of potatoes and pie and let him fall asleep in front of the fire after we eat. It'll be fine."

Sherlock pouted, lower lip puffed out dramatically; he looked about twelve years old. If he kept making faces like that at his parents' house she would have no problem keeping the latest evolution of their relationship off her mind.

She stood up and patted him on the leg. "Come on, let's get you dressed. Find your baggiest shirt and John and I won't even stare at your chest."

Sherlock stood up, then grabbed at her arm before she could turn away. "But Mary."

"Hmm?"

"What if I want them to know?"


	11. Mulled Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after saying these are not linear, I wrote a couple of linear ones. Don't get used to it. :)

Mrs. Holmes definitely intended to get everyone tipsy enough to let their defenses down and start answering her gently probing questions, because she had plenty of suspicions about what had happened last Christmas and even more about what had gone on before, when Sherlock had been shot. So she added brandy instead of water when she mixed the mulled wine, and then added more brandy after she cooked it, and then she made sure Sherlock and John and Mary kept their glasses full throughout the evening meal and beyond.

It worked. Sort of. Everyone got drunk. Well, she herself didn't, because she knew how much alcohol was involved in the mulling and stuck to sparkling water. But she forgot to tell her husband to take it easy on the wine and he fell asleep in his armchair next to the fire before they even had dessert. No matter. He wouldn't be much use in the inquiry she planned to conduct, anyway.

She should've started questioning them while they ate, but everyone seemed to really enjoy her pies and she didn't want to ruin the moment, so she waited until the Watsons retired to the living room. Sherlock stayed in the kitchen, though, actually helping with the washing up, but she wanted to question them all together. 

"Leave those for tomorrow, Sherlock. Your father can do them in the morning."

Sherlock turned away from the sink and wrapped his arms around her, completely unprompted. "I don't mind, Mum. Go, sit down and visit with the baby if you want."

It was a good thing he was holding her, because she nearly fell over. So this was what her baby boy was like when he'd had too much to drink. Much better than when he was high, that was certain. When he'd first got here this afternoon he'd been his usual rude, abrasive self, barely talking to anyone, and now he was hugging her and washing the dishes.

She left him to his chores and wandered out to check on John and Mary. John had already dozed off sitting on the sofa, the baby in his arms just as soundly asleep. Mary had squeezed herself into the space next to him. Mrs. Holmes was about to suggest that Mary sit on the other side of him and spare the poor sofa's arm, but then Sherlock waltzed out of the kitchen with another glass of mulled wine in his hand and deposited himself across the remaining free sofa cushions. How he didn't spill the wine she didn't know; that boy's mix of grace and awkwardness apparently carried through even when he was drunk.

She sat down in the chair across from them and thought about how to begin. It would be nice if John were awake, too, but she was pretty sure he was not the mastermind behind anything.

Mary wiggled deeper into the space next to John and turned so she was facing him. She looked down at the baby sleeping on his chest and then up at Sherlock and giggled. "Cute."

Yes, a baby sleeping on her father's chest certainly was cute. Mrs. Holmes cleared her throat. She would start with the drugging of last year's punch, and why exactly Sherlock had felt compelled to steal his brother's laptop and take off to that horrible man's house.

"I know," Sherlock responded. He set his wine down on the coffee table—not on a coaster, of course—and then reached out to fluff Alice's still-sparse hair. Since when did he play with babies? She watched as his hand drifted over Alice's head and then onto John's chest. He ran his fingers across the wool of John's jumper and then rested his hand on John's shoulder, kneading the fabric. It was an odd motion but not the strangest thing she'd ever seen Sherlock do.

"Sherlock, I've been meaning to talk to you—" she began.

Sherlock flopped sideways to sprawl against John. He smiled across the room at her. "Yes, Mum?"

She paused, caught off guard by what Sherlock was doing with his hands. The left one was still caressing John's shoulder while the right one hand snaked across John's lap. Mary reached out and took hold of Sherlock's fingers, as if surprised to find them there, then threaded her own fingers through his and rested her head on John's other shoulder. The baby, caught between them, didn't stir.

"Er, anyway, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes began again.

He turned his head and buried it in the side of John's neck. "Oh, he smells so good. Mary, smell."

Mary shifted, let one of her shoes drop to the floor and brought her leg up to sit with her foot resting against her crotch. Mrs. Holmes had never pegged her as so unladylike; the drink must have been causing her to forgo her manners. Mary dropped her head forward and sniffed at her husband, then sat back up, leaning on him to steady herself. "We all smell like that, Sherlock. It smells like Christmas. Here, sniff."

She stood up and took a wobbling step toward him, then dropped down onto Sherlock's lap. Sherlock caught her and tipped his head to inhale deeply. "You do smell good, too." He wrapped his arms around her and then leaned to the side to look at Mrs. Holmes. "Mum, did you know I like girls sometimes, too? I didn't." He chuckled; Mrs. Holmes watched Mary squirm against his lap at the sound of his laugh. "I haven't been this drunk since John's stag night," he added.

Mary giggled. "I heard about that. Least you shouldn't end up needing to be bailed out of jail tonight."

Sherlock looked off into the distance as if making a difficult calculation, then announced. "I haven't been arrested in a whole year!" 

"Yay!" Mary shifted on his lap again and raised a hand to give him an off-center high-five. Mrs. Holmes leaned back in her chair and watched them. Maybe she needed to change her line of questioning. Apparently there were more secrets here than she'd expected.


	12. Ugly Christmas Jumpers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, now little Alice is about 5 years old. I knew I couldn't stay chronological for long. This one is pure fluff!

"Are you sure Daddy wouldn't want this one, Alice?" Sherlock pointed to a blue cardigan with a snowflake pattern splashed across the chest; it was ugly but better than the curiosity Alice wanted to buy her father.

Alice turned to examine the cardigan, hands on her hips, bottom lip puffed out. "He would like it, but it's not a Christmas jumper, it's just winter."

"I see." Sherlock scratched at his temple. "And did your father specify that he wanted a Christmas jumper this year?"

"No, silly. It's a surprise."

"So then you can get him any type of jumper you'd like. Or something else—slippers, perhaps, or...a tie?" That was something children bought for their fathers, wasn't it?

Alice rolled her eyes at him; he wondered when she had picked up that habit. "I have to get him a Christmas jumper. It's on my list. Look." She dug into the pocket of her coat and produced a folded square of paper. She started to open it and then quickly re-folded it and returned it to her pocket. "You can't see it, sorry."

Sherlock bit back a chuckle, wondering what she'd written on the list under his name. This was the first time she'd insisted on picking out gifts on her own, saying that now that she was in Year 1 at school she had to do her own Christmas shopping.

"I really think he will like this one, though, Uncle Sherlock." She pulled at the sleeve of the green jumper again. "He watched it three times with me so far this month."

"He watched it?" Sherlock frowned at the crude, beast-like face that adorned the jumper. "Is it from something on telly?"

"It's the Grinch! Uncle Sherlock! Everyone knows the Grinch!"

Sherlock pursed his lips. He'd spent the last few years trying not to delete trivial things that seemed important to Alice (and to John and Mary as well), but this Grinch wasn't ringing any bells. Although the artwork was vaguely familiar. "Is it a Seuss creation?" There were a number of Dr. Seuss books at the Watson house; some of them had even migrated over to his flat.

"Yes! Like the Cat in the Hat! Help me find his size. Medium. I checked his jumpers this morning while he was in the shower. Is this a medium?" She tugged at the jumper at the front of the display; she was too short to see the tag inside the collar. 

Sherlock bent to inspect it. "No, this one's a small."

"Mummy's a small! I could get them matching jumpers!"

He raised an eyebrow. "Does your list say Christmas jumper for Mummy, too?"

"No." Her face fell and she chewed at her lip, clearly torn.

Sherlock knelt down next to her so their faces were level. "Alice, it's your list, so you can change it if you want. Has Mummy seen this Grinch program, too?"

"Yes, everyone's seen it, Uncle Sherlock."

"All right, then." He checked the price tag: reasonable, for something that would be worn once, he supposed, then located the appropriate sizes for her. 

Alice folded the jumpers over her arm, excited now that she'd made her selections. "What size do you wear, Uncle Sherlock?"

"Large," he said, then realized why she asked. "No, but I've never seen the Grinch, so I shouldn't wear a picture of him—"

"No, but we're going to watch it tonight and you'll love it. I know you will. Is there a large?"

He thought about lying to her, but when he checked the rack there weren't any larges, so he was spared that, at least. "Sorry. I guess just Mummy and Daddy will match."

"Oh, you can have Max!" She pointed to the jumper on display next to the too-small Grinches.

"Max?"

"He's the Grinch's dog! He's a good guy, even before the Grinch is!"

"Why does he have horns?"

"They're antlers. He's a reindeer! Come on, find a large! You can all wear them on Christmas day!"


	13. Warming Up by the Fire

"Oh, thank God, you're both finally done." Mary rolled off the bed, away from Sherlock and John, searching for her clothes in the pile on the floor. "I'm freezing."

"How are you possibly cold after that?" John lay on his back in the middle of the bed, breathing heavily.

"Because I came ten minutes ago, thanks for noticing. And it's December and freezing in here. Sherlock, is the heat even on?"

"Downstairs it is. I think the radiators up here may be turned off. No one ever uses this room."

"We're up here every Wednesday!"

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and watched her fasten her bra and pull on her blouse. "You could have pulled up the blanket or gotten dressed earlier."

"I was being polite."

John laughed. "She was too busy watching us to notice she was cold until just now." 

Mary swung her trousers at him and he grabbed the leg before it could hit him and grinned. "We can build a fire downstairs if you want."

"Oh, that would be lovely, ta." She leaned over to drop a kiss on his lips and then stretched across him to kiss Sherlock as well. 

Sherlock got the fire going and John made coffee and Mary curled up on the rug between their chairs, a blanket draped over her shoulders. Sherlock settled into his chair, his slippered feet creeping under Mary's blanket, and said, "Mrs. Hudson knows about us."

"What?" John cursed as he sloshed coffee onto his lap. "How?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't tell her. She just knew. She wanted details, but I wouldn't give her any. I think she thought I was gay. Boring." He tipped his head back and drew the last word out.

"But we've been careful." Mary didn't worry as much as John did about other people judging their lifestyle, but she tended to think it was no one else's business.

Sherlock kicked off his slippers and pushed his feet farther under the blanket. "It doesn't really matter. It's just Mrs. Hudson. She's like family, and my family has known about us for a few years now, almost from the very beginning."

John wiped at the coffee stain on his trousers with the palm of his hand and said, "Yeah, still not sure how they figured that out so fast. Must've been Mycroft."

Mary glanced up at Sherlock, who wiggled his feet against her thigh. John never had woken up during Mrs. Holmes's interrogation at Christmas that year. She put her hand on Sherlock's feet and looked into the fire as she spoke. "You're right, Sherlock. I think it doesn't really matter. There are probably plenty of other people who suspect, since we are always together, and you spend half your nights at our place when you're not on a case. But who cares?" She met Sherlock's eyes and then turned her head to look at John.

John sipped at his coffee and returned her gaze. "I guess. I guess it's okay. I mean, Mrs. Hudson at least."

Mary nodded. "The people we care about. They should know, really. There's no need to keep secrets from them."

John snorted a laugh at that and Mary frowned. "There's no need to keep secrets about love, John. It won't hurt anyone. Some secrets need to be kept, but not this."

"Hmm." John set his coffee cup down and leaned back in his chair, sticking his sock-clad feet out to rest on Mary's left thigh. "Maybe you're right. Don't expect me to go making an announcement on the blog, but maybe you're right."

Mary smiled and Sherlock danced his toes along her leg. In front of her, the fire crackled invitingly and she finally began to feel warm.


	14. Trimming the Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've discovered I can go about 2 weeks before I have to write something involving John being injured.

 

They'd already decorated a tree at their house for Alice's first Christmas, but Sherlock was hosting a party at Baker Street again this year and he'd decided lights strung over the mantle weren't enough—he needed a tree as well. A real one, no less, personally chosen and cut down from a field, which apparently had been his family's tradition when he was a boy. John had never known Sherlock to be sentimental about his family's traditions, but that was before he found himself driving an hour to a farm in South London to chop down a Christmas tree. And then of course on the way home he found himself sitting in the backseat, letting Mary drive and Sherlock navigate, while he propped his swelling ankle up on the seat next to Alice's car seat. 

"It's just twisted. I don't need an x-ray," John repeated as he hobbled up the stairs to the flat, leaning on Sherlock as Mary carried a sleeping Alice up behind them.

Sherlock deposited him on the sofa with a peck on the cheek and an admonition. "I told you it was icy in the northern corner of the farm."

John groaned. "I found the perfect tree, didn't I?"

"Yes, and the cost was only sixty pounds and your health." Mary squeezed his uninjured ankle and then dropped the sleeping baby onto his chest. "I'll get you some ice."

"We saved the ten pound delivery fee, don't forget," Sherlock said. "Hurry with the ice, Mary. I'll want help getting the tree off the car and into the flat."

John sighed and let Mary tug off his shoe and arrange an ice pack over his ankle. She pulled the blanket off the back of his armchair and draped it over his legs, then asked about Alice's nappy situation.

John unbuttoned Alice's fleece romper and slipped two fingers up under the edge of her nappy. "Dry," he reported. "Go help Sherlock with the tree before he hurts himself and you end up having to care for us both."

"I care for you both already," Mary said, and leaned over to brush her lips across his forehead before jogging out of the flat after Sherlock. John let his shoulders relax, tried to find a less-painful position for his leg and waited, inhaling the scent of Alice's baby shampoo and the yogurt she's smeared into the side of her hair this morning.

Soon baby scent was replaced with the smell of pine, and John had to admit Sherlock had made the right choice with a real tree. He only cringed a bit with Sherlock produced a hacksaw to lop off the excess branches.

Mary and Sherlock disagreed over which was the best side of the tree, so John overruled them both, and after that they managed to trim the tree with surprisingly little bickering. He didn't mind just watching, trapped under a sleeping baby while they did all the work. The two of them both had more talent for decorating than he did, and he didn't miss the rash that contact with pine sap usually gave him. Though he would've been a lot more comfortable without the ice pack and the low-level throbbing pain.

Eventually Sherlock and Mary were both satisfied with the results of their efforts. Mary crossed the room to scoop up Alice, who was starting to squirm towards wakefulness, and Sherlock stepped back to admire their handiwork. "What do you think?" he asked John, gesturing at the tree, which looked quite lovely adorned with the combination of Mrs. Hudson's antique ornaments, real pine cones and glittering lights.

"Perfect," John pronounced, then thought again. "Actually, no. I think I would like it a lot more if one of you fetched me a whisky and some ibuprofen."


	15. Christmas Party

John spent the week before Sherlock's Christmas party driving Mary crazy, limping around the house in obvious pain after twisting his ankle but refusing to wrap it or use the crutches she brought home from work. He took a couple of paracetamol before they dropped Alice off at the sitter's on the evening of the party, but he was still hobbling appreciably by the time they'd climbed the seventeen stairs and entered Sherlock's flat.

There were more people than Mary expected: Molly and Mrs. Hudson and Greg were here but so were Anderson and Sally and Janine and Mike Stamford and even Billy Wiggins. Sherlock ignored them all to hover over John; Mary was happy to have someone else John could aggravate for a while.

"Oh!" Sherlock clapped his hands together as if he'd just made some fabulous deduction and Mary looked up from the punch she was ladling. "You can use your old walking stick!" Sherlock said.

"What?" The look John turned on Sherlock was surprisingly venomous even given the level of crankiness he had displayed over the last week. "Do not tell me you still have that thing."

"Yes, of course I do. I know right where it is. Let me go find it for you."

"I don't want it! I don't need it!" John lurched down the hall after Sherlock, and Mary wondered how much he would have to drink before he would be willing to just sit down and relax. She followed them down the hall, toward Sherlock's bedroom.

"Why the fuck do you have my old walking stick in your bedroom?" John's fury was reaching dangerous levels; Mary's only consolation was that he was immobile enough that Sherlock should be able to easily dodge any physical attack John tried to launch. She crowded into the bedroom behind them and then shut the door, not willing to have all the party-goers witness his rage.

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. "Where else could I have put it? You would've got rid of it if it were anyplace else in the flat."

"Of course I would have. Why did you keep it?" John's emotion seemed a little overboard for such a small transgression on Sherlock's part.

Sherlock shrugged. "I kept it in case someone had need of it again, of course." He held the metal cane out toward John and John clenched his fists at his side.

"Sherlock's a packrat, John," Mary said, trying to defuse the situation. "He keeps everything."

"This wasn't his to keep," John replied through clenched teeth.

She needed to change the topic. "I didn't know you ever used a cane."

"Of course he did. Psychosomatic limp." Sherlock wasn't really very good at defusing John's anger.

Mary tried again. "I just never knew it was that bad. You never told me."

John blinked at her. "So what, you're allowed to have secrets but I'm not?"

Mary widened her eyes at him. This wasn't really the time to be starting that conversation, not with so many people just outside the door.

Sherlock finally seemed to notice that John needed to be mollified somehow. "Fine. A secret," he said, and sighed dramatically. "I smoke two cigarettes every morning and I have no intention of stopping."

Mary waited, breath held, to see how John would react. After a moment, he softened his posture just a bit and said, "Yeah, well, we know that, Sherlock. We both kiss you regularly."

"Hmph." Sherlock tipped up his chin and motioned with the cane. "Your turn, Mary."

She rolled her eyes and then reached up to finger a lock of her own hair that she had carefully curled for tonight's party. "I haven't been this blond naturally since I was twelve. I think I'm probably almost as gray as John now, to tell you the truth."

"Knew that one, too," John said, and looked pointedly down at her crotch. She pressed her thighs together and half-turned away, shamming propriety.

John blew out a breath; she could see the exact moment he decided to relent. "Fine. All right. I'll tell you a bigger secret you probably already know." He paused, then grinned. "I think I might be bisexual." He pursed his lips together, obviously trying not to laugh. "Also my ankle hurts like a bastard so if you could please give that to me?"

Sherlock held the cane out to him again, then, when John took it, asked, "Would you like me to carry you back out into the sitting room?"

"Fuck you," John said genially.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if it were an invitation he was considering, and then they all turned their heads as someone rapped on the bedroom door. "Everything okay in there?" Greg called in to them.

Mary opened the door and Greg grinned at her, a bottle of beer in his hand. "You three having a lovers' spat?" 

"We couldn't agree which gift to buy you, Grant." Sherlock swooped past Mary, out of the room.

"Everything's fine," Mary said. "We were just looking for John's old cane."

"Ah." Greg nodded. "Haven't seen that in a while. Forgot all about it. Hurt your ankle, did you?"

John grumbled but didn't try to attack Greg, just limped out of the room. Mary watched him go, thinking it was probably best not to point out that he was holding the cane on the wrong side of his body. Some people were just too stubborn to listen to reason.


	16. Family Traditions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided I was being far too chronological and jumped ahead a decade or so and decided to try a new POV.

Alice twisted apart her flute and set it into the case, then snapped the case shut and shoved it into her school bag. One advantage to playing a small instrument, at least. 

"Hey, how come you knew all those songs already?" Her friend Sophia caught up with her as she left the band room, headed to class. 

Alice frowned at her. "They're Christmas carols. Everyone knows them."

"Everyone knows them to sing. But we've never played them in band before this year."

Alice shrugged. "I've played them at home. We have little Christmas concerts every year."

"Really? You play for your family?"

"Well, it's not just me. My mum plays the piano a little and Sherlock plays the violin."

"Sherlock—" Sophie stumbled over the name. "Oh right, he's your weird uncle, isn't he?"

"Er, yes?" She couldn't really deny that Sherlock was a little strange, though she'd stopped calling him "Uncle" years ago. One look at him and it was pretty clear he wasn't related to either of her parents.

"So you get together with your mum and your weird uncle and play Christmas carols, what, for your dad?"

"Well, yes. For the whole family, really. On Christmas Day." She swallowed and hoped Sophia didn't ask about which side of the family. She knew she wasn't related to Sherlock's mum and dad but she'd been calling them Gram and Grandad her whole life.

They reached the end of the hallway and stopped; Sophia had English class now but Alice's next class was French. "Your family sounds so sweet," Sophia told her. "Like a perfect little storybook family. Mine just gets together at Christmas and argues and drinks too much."

Alice laughed; she couldn't help it. Her family was many things and she loved them all dearly but a perfect little storybook family they were not. Unless the story was some sort of comedic murder mystery, maybe. "They aren't exactly perfect."

"Right," Sophia said. "I'm thinking of shaving my head for Christmas so my grandparents will get upset with me instead of giving my older brother shite about being gay. Is that what your family is like, Alice?" 

"Er, no. Sorry." She gave Sophia a sympathetic half-smile. "Everyone in my family is pretty supportive of each other."

"Lucky." Sophia wrinkled her noise. "Supportive and they taught you all the Christmas music we're playing this year so you don't even need to practice." She sighed, and then headed down the hall to class, turning to look over her shoulder as she walked so she could add, "Guess that makes up for how weird your Uncle Sherlock is."

Alice laughed and shook her head. Poor Sophia had no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I were organized enough to read ahead to see what prompts are coming up, I might've saved this idea for the "Christmas songs" one a few days from no. Whoops.


	17. Christmas without You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jumped forward in time even more.

Traditionally, Sherlock had no particular interest in or attachment to Christmas, other than appreciating the usual uptick in crimes born of passion and family resentment that occurred around the holiday. Yet over the years he'd grown accustomed to celebrating, prompted by the obvious enjoyment that those close to him derived from the season.

The circle of those who were important enough to Sherlock to force him to commemorate the occasion had grown smaller in recent years, first with the loss of Mrs. Hudson and then Dad and Mum. But even as his family had shrunk he had known he could always depend on the Watsons to be there, with their insistence on trees and wrapping paper and waking up so early for gifts that it just made sense for Sherlock to spend the night.

But this year John and Mary had been invited to Manchester to meet the family of Alice's boyfriend for the first time. Lucas was a nice enough boy, a bit on the short side, but that seemed a common trait in these parts. He was smart enough to choose a career as a scientist and also a halfway decent musician, although his preferred instrument was the trumpet, unfortunately. Sherlock thought him almost a deserving match for Alice. Lucas had certainly never questioned Sherlock's presence in Alice's life, or in John and Mary's, for that matter, but when it came time to introduce families it seemed only legal ties would be considered. Sherlock understood the level of awkwardness that would likely result should Alice show up on the doorstep of Lucas's family home with three parents in tow, and he'd offered no objection to staying behind. He just hadn't anticipated how lonely he'd be come Christmas morning. It was quite baffling; he was almost tempted to give Mycroft a call.

He stayed in bed as long as he could, turning his back to the weak winter sunlight filtering through his curtained windows and trying to force his mind and body back into sleep. It was no use, but he didn’t want to get out of bed, either. The thought of having to face the string of lights he'd looped around the fireplace and left switched on overnight was overwhelming. He knew plenty of people spent Christmas alone, and he'd certainly done so himself in the past. Luckily the temptation to return to any of the activities he'd engaged in on those distant holidays was nearly non-existent. He pulled his blanket up to his nose and resolved to see how long he could remain in one position.

Twenty-six minutes. It would've been much longer but after twenty-six minutes his bedroom door was rudely thrown open and a festively jumper-clad John strode into the room.

"Come on. Get dressed. The girls are waiting in the car." John yanked the covers off him and Sherlock rolled onto his side, seeking the warmth John had stolen. "Seriously, Sherlock. Get up. I think Lucas's parents are planning on an early dinner."

"I thought you were leaving hours ago?"

"We were. We did. We went about sixty miles and then turned around and came back." John was digging through Sherlock's wardrobe as he spoke. 

"Why'd you do that?"

"Idiot. Lucas's family wants to meet our family, yeah? So guess what." He raised his eyebrows and held out one of Sherlock's casual dress shirts.

Sherlock sighed and sat up, curving his spine forward to stretch away the night's pain. Christmas morning. "Fine," he said, sounding much more put out than he actually was. "But I am not wearing that shirt. Look at the buttons. Honestly, John, don't you think we should at least try to make a good impression?"


	18. Mistletoe

"Oh, no. No, no, no!" Sherlock sprang across the room, throwing himself at the dog, who was lounging on the floor of the sitting room, licking his lips. "John! Mary!"

There was a crashing noise from the kitchen and John appeared, hands still dripping soap from the washing up. Mary skidded to a stop behind him. "What? What's wrong?"

"The dog got hold of the mistletoe." Sherlock pulled the remaining leaves away from Gladstone.

"How'd he get it? I thought you put it up out of reach?" 

"I did! It must've fallen." Sherlock looked up at the doorframe where he'd hung the decorative leaves. The nail was still in the wood but about half the plant was missing. 

"Did he eat any of it?" John wiped his hands on the legs of his trousers and knelt down next to Sherlock and Gladstone who, rather than appearing to be in any distress, began to snuffle excitedly at John's hands. 

"I think so." Sherlock scooped up the leaves that were strewn on the floor around the dog, and then glanced back at what remained hanging so he could gauge what was missing. "Some berries, a bit of the stem and leaves. Not too much, I don't think."

"It's poison, though, right?" John was trying to pry open Gladstone's mouth; the dog thought it was a fun game.

"Yes, it is. Not the most effective toxin known to man, but in large enough quantities...." Dread gripped Sherlock at the realization he had just poisoned his dog. "John, do something! Help him!"

John had managed to get Gladstone to open his mouth; he swiped his fingers over his tongue and deposited a wad of dog spittle onto the floor. "I think he's okay. I don't think he swallowed very much, like you said."

"But he might have! And he's still a puppy—he's not very big! Even a little could be harmful!"

"He's over a year old, Sherlock. Calm down."

"No! My dog could be dying! I will not calm down until you do something to save him!"

"What am I supposed to do? Want me to call the vet?"

"No! You're a doctor—help him!"

John sat back on his heels, keeping one hand on Gladstone's head, but he was scratching him behind his ear, not actually helping him. Sherlock could feel the panic and frustration swelling; John reached out with his other hand to pat Sherlock's arm and Sherlock pulled away from him.

"Hey, it's all right. Look." Mary knelt down in the narrow space between Sherlock and John. She held out her phone. "See—it says to induce vomiting." 

Sherlock glanced at the phone screen and nodded, trying to collect himself enough to think. "How?"

"Hydrogen peroxide," John said. "There's some in your medicine cabinet." He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and pushed himself to his feet, then strode off towards the loo. Sherlock watched him go, then turned his attention back to the dog, who had rolled onto his side in response to Mary's willingness to pet him.

"Aw, you're a stupid boy who eats things he shouldn't, aren't you?" she said, her voice high and bright. Sherlock rolled his eyes; he would never talk to Gladstone that way when there were other people around to hear him.

John returned a moment later with the bottle of peroxide and Sherlock's water glass he used when he brushed his teeth. 

"Hey, that's my—"

John cut him off with a look and Sherlock didn't object further as John filled the glass halfway and then held it out for the dog. Gladstone's snout was too broad to fit into the cup, but he managed to reach his tongue in to lap at the liquid, which apparently tasted better to dogs than to humans, because he happily swallowed it. John tipped the glass obligingly until the dog had drunk it all.

Gladstone snuffed and tried to eat the glass once it was empty; John pulled it away. "Okay, not sure how long this will take. A few minutes, maybe. Want to take him outside or let him vomit in here? And we probably should take him to the vet after, just to be safe." 

Gladstone gave up on trying to get the empty glass and rolled back onto his side, giving his sad puppy look, presumably hoping for more petting. 

"We should take him out," Sherlock said. He reached out to pat Gladstone's head, then let his hand fall to his side. He suddenly felt unaccountably tired. 

"Hey, it's all right." Mary slipped her phone into her pocket—they all knew not to leave phones where Gladstone could get them—and wrapped her arms around Sherlock. "He's going to be fine."

"Mmm." Sherlock didn't trust himself to say anything more. 

John gave the dog another scratch on the head and then said "Walk," which prompted a flurry of claws on the wooden floor as Gladstone scrambled to his feet and went to fetch his leash from its spot by the door. 

Sherlock let himself relax into Mary's arms. John slid across the floor to join their hug, and then Gladstone padded back across the room, dragging his leash. He head-butted his way in between the three of them, panting and treating them all to big slobbery kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I have learned writing these ficlets:  
> 1\. I am not very romantic.  
> 2\. I will go out of my way to avoid writing whatever I think will be the most common response to a prompt.  
> 3\. All these ficlets could be wrangled into a timeline of sorts, except for the first one and this one. Because I basically forgot about John and Mary getting a dog for Sherlock, and I don't really like how it would fit into the rest of the chronology as I've been imagining it. So this is probably the only Gladstone ficlet I will write. (Also I'm a cat person and think BBC Sherlock is, too.)


	19. Christmas Songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this at 1am so let me know if there are mistakes.

The Year 7 school concert was lovely; Mary was amazed at how much improvement the band and orchestra showed compared to the primary school performances she was used to. The only black mark on the evening was the presence of a particular group of parents who were seated a row behind her and John and Sherlock.

At first she thought it was an aberration; just before the orchestra began to play, a man yelled out, "Liam!" None of the students in the orchestra responded—Mary wasn't sure if they would be able to hear from the stage—and he shouted the name once more before the conductor raised his hands and the song began. Mary saw Sherlock shooting a dirty look over his shoulder; she laid a placating hand on his knee and felt him settle into his seat as the music began.

Alice wasn't in the orchestra; she played the flute in the band, which was the last group to perform at the concert. Mary didn't mind; she genuinely loved Christmas music and didn't get to listen to it very much at home. John thought carols should only be heard on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and spent a month and a half each year complaining about how the shops started playing them too early. Sherlock gave every appearance of holding the same disdain for Christmas songs as he did for all pop music and a hefty percentage of classical, but he'd never hesitated to attend any of Alice's holiday concerts and he certainly knew how to play a vast selection of carols on his violin. In fact, every time she glanced over at him as the orchestra played he was moving his fingers, as if playing along with the music.

The orchestra finished their allotted four songs and the chorus filed onto the bleachers in front of the stage. As they sang, Mary could hear that a few of the boys' voices were starting to change; next year's concert might even include tenor parts. While the orchestra had played arrangements of Christmas carols Mary recognized, the chorus's songs were more diverse: a Christmas offering, a Hanukkah song, something in Swahili that was very pretty though Mary had no idea what it was about, and finally a song about snow. 

When they finished, she applauded along with the rest of the audience but stopped when she noticed John had turned around in his seat to glare at the man who had shouted earlier in the evening. She leaned over to ask what had happened, but John shook his head. "Just a racist arsehole sitting behind us."

Mary looked back but the man was no longer speaking; whatever John had overheard had been too quiet for her to hear. Sherlock, on the other side of her, hadn't seemed to notice, either, though he glanced back when she did. She turned to face forward again and tried to spot Alice as they band proceeded onto the stage. There she was, front row, third from the left. Mary turned on her phone and checked to see if she'd be able to get a clear picture once they started playing; yes, though it was a good thing Alice didn't play trumpet or she'd be stuck in the back row and nearly invisible.

It took a few minutes but finally all the musicians were in place and the director introduced the band, giving the usual speech about how far the students had come in the few months he'd been working with them this year. Mary toggled her phone's camera on and off, wondering which of the songs she should try to record. 

The director turned his back to the audience; a few toots and squeaks were produced as the young musicians readied their instruments, and from behind them, someone shouted, "Jordan!"

Mary turned around. Her first thought was that it was unusual for the rude man to have two children in the same year at school. Then someone else, a few seats farther away, yelled, "Stevie!" 

The first man screamed "Jordan!" again, and then the second one repeated "Stevie!" joined this time by a woman, as they competed to see who could shout their child's name louder. At least four people yelled the names two or three times, and then John stood up from his seat and turned around.

"Enough." He wasn't anywhere near as loud as the people who'd been shouting, but his voice could be clearly heard. Mary suppressed a shiver at the menace she detected behind it. On the other side of her, Sherlock rose smoothly to his feet, a tall, imposing presence backing up John.

Everyone was quiet for a moment, then, from in front of them, another parent shouted, "Yeah, grow up!" to the group that had been disruptive. John tipped his chin down; Mary could only see him in profile but she knew the look he must be giving them and was glad it was not directed at her. She expected a response from the men and women who'd been yelling, but none of them said a word, though there was some shuffling of feet and one man seemed suddenly very interested in studying his concert program. After a moment John said, "Thank you," and sat down. Sherlock followed his lead, and Mary put a hand on each of their thighs, not caring if any other parents saw her do it. On stage, the band started to play, songs about peace and goodwill. Maybe she was biased, but Mary thought the flute section in particular sounded wonderful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to write a straightforward fluffy Holmes-family Christmas music scene, but Friday night I went to my kid's concert and the parents yelling for Liam and Stevie and Jordan were there, sitting behind us. No racist comments, but they didn't stop until a couple other parents told them to. Ugh.


	20. All Wrapped Up

"Hmm." Sherlock used his thumb to help Alice flatten the paper on the box she was wrapping. "Pull that edge a bit tighter." 

She did as he instructed and Sherlock reined in his instinct to redo it for her. She was learning; that was the point. He was just grateful that the only Christmas gifts she needed to wrap were the ugly jumpers that fit neatly into nice, rectangular boxes. Maybe this was the reason for the proliferation of gift bags in recent years: five-year-olds who insisted on wrapping things themselves.

They finished the two boxes with John's and Mary's jumpers and Alice set them under the tree with the other gifts that her parents had already wrapped. She ran off to her bedroom to retrieve a final present and then announced, "You can't help me with this one, Uncle Sherlock." 

Sherlock nodded solemnly, as if he had no idea what she had got him, even though he'd been with her when she picked it out. He sat on the floor next to the tree and watched her cover the box, using the tips he'd given her with the first two packages: make sure there was enough paper before cutting, crease it tightly against the edges, fold both sides before starting to tape. 

"Excellent job," he said, as she carefully printed his name on the tag and added a bow.

"I'll put it under the tree with your other present, Uncle Sherlock."

He absently lined up the stack of gifts nearest his foot. "There's no other present for me under the tree yet," he told her. John and Mary knew better; they never let him glimpse whatever they got him before Christmas morning because he could always tell what was in the package, no matter how they tried to disguise it.

"Yes, there is." Alice leaned over the neatly stacked boxes, knocking them askew again, and retrieved a small package. Professionally wrapped, no bigger than his hand. A jewelry box, but—

"Put it back, Alice." He never wore jewelry, and it was smaller than a watch box. They wouldn't buy him a tie pin, or cufflinks. "Put it back."

"But don't you want to know what's in it?" She held it up to her ear and shook it.

"No. Yes." They hadn't made any attempt at disguise, as if they wanted him to know ahead of time. He swallowed. "I'll find out on Christmas morning. Come on. Put it back and we'll go make some hot chocolate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I tried to spell it "jewellery" but I couldn't.)


	21. Christmas Movies/Specials

The problem with young children, Sherlock reflected, was inconsistency. Sometimes they forgot what they'd been doing five minutes ago, jumping from one activity to the next, leaving nothing but a trail of unfinished projects in their wake. And other times nothing could distract them once they had fixated on a plan. Which was how Sherlock found himself corralled into the Watsons' living room, seated on the sofa with a platter of biscuits and two glasses of milk, forced into a holiday viewing of _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_. 

Mary got Alice into her pyjamas and settled her on the sofa next to Sherlock. "Aren't you watching it with us?" If Mary stuck around, Sherlock wouldn't have to pretend to pay attention; she could answer any questions Alice had. 

"No, I've got to get the Christmas cards addressed tonight. Anyway, I've seen it so many times I can recite it by heart." Mary smiled, clearly not regretful, and disappeared into the kitchen. 

"John?" Sherlock pleaded. 

John was fussing with the DVD remote. "Yeah, I'll watch with you. Here, get this thing going, would you?" 

Sherlock reached for the remote but Alice grabbed it first. "Input, Dad. You just use the input button." She switched the telly screen over and the DVD menu appeared. 

John settled in on the other side of Alice, his feet up on the coffee table, one arm resting along the top of the sofa, over Alice's head. Sherlock leaned back and felt John's fingers graze his shoulder, warm and comfortable. 

The film was amusing, possibly even cute, and the fact that Alice thought that Sherlock should wear a Max the Dog jumper while her parents wore the Grinch's likeness was both surprising and oddly heartwarming. 

When it ended, John stopped the DVD and shut off the telly. "Bedtime, little girl," he said, and gave an exaggerated wave of his hand towards Alice's room. She jumped off the sofa and ran down the hall, singing "Welcome Christmas" in a voice that was a good approximation of a small Who, in Sherlock's opinion. 

"God, I'm going to have that song in my head for days, now," John said. 

"Sorry. Guess I didn't have to make you watch with us." 

"No, I don't mind. I like it. Never saw it before I met Mary, though. She says she watched it every year growing up." He paused. "You don't remember watching it on telly when you were little, do you?" 

Sherlock frowned at him. "If I had, why would I retain that information?" 

John whacked his upper arm and then brushed his lips over the spot he'd hit. "Don't give me that. You know all the words to every Christmas carol ever. You secretly love Christmas, don't you, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock frowned harder and crossed his arms over his chest. "No, I'm the Grinch." 

"Aw, you love it." John leaned farther into Sherlock's space and then tickled across his ribcage . "Love it," he repeated, and then stood up to go put Alice to bed. "Sherlock loves Christmas!" he called out to Mary in the next room. 

"I know!" she called back. "Put Alice to bed, please!" 

Sherlock stuck his foot out into John's pathway and John stepped nimbly over it, raised his eyebrows, and then trotted off down the hall. Sherlock glanced over at the sparkling Christmas tree with its stack of gifts and grinned, then snuggled back into the sofa cushions. Alice's bedtime routine took a while; he could probably get through most of the _Grinch_ again before John returned.


	22. Snowed In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should put years on these or something. Let's say Alice is a baby in 2015. That makes this about 2045.

John opened the door to the hotel room, letting in a gust of cold air and a swirl of snow. Mary shivered and pressed herself closer to Sherlock where they lounged on the bed, cuddling and half-watching some Christmas film that had been old when Alice was a baby.

John stepped into the room and stamped his feet just inside the door. "Looks like we're spending Christmas in a hotel in Scotland."

"What?" Sherlock sat up, dislodging Mary; she grabbed at the duvet and tugged it around herself. "We have to get home," he said. "Alice and Lucas are expecting us."

"Well, maybe you should've thought about that before insisting on driving to the snowiest place in Great Britain." John pulled the chair away from the room's tiny table and sat down to unlace his boots.

"Actually, Aberdeen gets less snow than—"

"I don't care," John interrupted. "Next year you're not taking a case this far away this close to Christmas, it doesn't matter how interesting it is. It's time you learned what it means to be retired, anyway."

"I know what it means to be retired," Sherlock replied, and lay back down next to Mary. "It means we can take cases whenever and wherever I want and not have to worry about being back in time for you two to be at work. Anyway, I don't care about a little snow. I can drive us home."

"No!" Mary and John both shouted and then smiled across the room at each other. Mary put her hand on Sherlock to soften the blow. "You let me know when you're ready and I'll make the appointment and then after that you can drive again."

"I do not have cataracts," Sherlock grumbled, and flopped onto his side, rubbing his face along Mary's arm. "Some of those highway signs are just very tiny."

John stepped out of his boots and crossed the room. "Move over. It's freezing out there. The wind is vicious."

Mary slid over, pressing against Sherlock until he finally scooted to the edge of the bed. It was king-sized and fit the three of them for most activities, but she wasn't spending another night in the middle. "I call closest to the loo tonight."

"Yes, certainly. I don't know how you get any rest at all with all the trips you make," Sherlock said. 

Mary leaned over and kissed his forehead. "We'll be back home in a day or two and you can have your own bedroom again." The three of them had adjusted very well to life in their little cottage, but Sherlock having his own room for sleeping most nights was essential to everyone's happiness.

"Hmm." Sherlock lifted his hand to prevent her from straightening back up from the kiss. "Turn off the telly. John is cold—I can feel him from here. I think we need to warm him up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Retirement Johnlockary might just be my next long project if I ever finish writing the basketball fic. I just need a plot other than bickering and snuggling.


	23. All I Want for Christmas Is You

Mary dropped onto the sofa next to Sherlock. "Budge over, you're taking up all the space."

He was not taking up all the space, but he slid over anyway, running up against John, who shifted so he was sitting sideways against the arm of the sofa.

John kicked off his shoes and brought his feet up onto the cushion and pulled Sherlock into the space between his legs. "Alice asleep?" he asked Mary.

"Yes, thank God. I can't take any more sugar-fueled five-year-old." She sagged against the sofa cushions.

Sherlock turned so his back was against John's chest and put his bare feet in Mary's lap. "How about a sugar-fueled forty-five-year-old?"

"Your feet are freezing," she replied, and covered them with her hands, rubbing gently.

Sherlock smiled and wiggled his toes. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome, but you'd be better off with socks."

"Not what I meant," Sherlock said. He twisted his head to graze John's lightly-stubbled cheek with his lips and then straightened up to look at Mary again. "I mean this." He settled his hands in his lap, the right under the left; the ring he'd first put on this morning glinted up at him, reflecting the light from the fireplace.

John's arms tightened around him and Mary let her hands travel up his ankles, slipping under the hem of his trousers. "Oh, Sherlock," she said. He could feel her nails grazing his skin. "It's—" She closed her eyes and shook her head.

Sherlock squinted at her and waited for John's interpretation, which came immediately. "As soon as she suggested it we realized we should've done it years ago. Maybe even at our wedding."

Sherlock considered, relaxing back into John's embrace as Mary resumed massaging his calves. "I would have said no back then."

"Would you have?" Mary quirked an eyebrow. "You basically exchanged vows in your speech before our first dance."

He shook his head. "Not like that. I—I didn't know. I mean. I knew I loved you both. But I. I didn't think I wanted to be part of a couple." The past few years: it had been a slow process, but every step had felt right, including this morning when he opened the small box while Alice tore through her gifts and John and Mary nervously monitored his reaction.

John's lips brushed against the side of Sherlock's neck. "You're not," he said, and Sherlock frowned.

"Sorry, what?"

"You're not part of a couple," John said. "You're part of a family."

Sherlock let his head sink back to rest against John's shoulder and tried to bury his feet in between Mary's warm thighs. Yes, that sounded right. His family, complete with a child who'd eaten nothing but sweets at her grandparents' house this afternoon and a husband and a wife who hugged him and held him and rubbed his feet until they were warm and who would take him to bed and love him and then make him get up and eat breakfast and clean up all the Christmas mess in the morning.


	24. St. Nicholas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing my trend of not exactly following the prompt, there is no St. Nicholas/Santa Claus/Father Christmas in this story. But I really wanted to write a ficlet set in church on Christmas Eve, and there are several churches called St. Nicholas in the London area, so here you go!

The church was much more crowded than Mary had seen it on the Sunday mornings she'd been here with Alice. She wasn't surprised—it was Christmas Eve—but the thought of being in the midst of such a large crowd did give her a moment of pause. She tightened her grip on Alice's car seat carrier and then forced herself to relax. If there was any place where she could be sure her old life was not likely to ambush her it was here, in church with her family: Alice and John and...yes, there he was, sitting in the middle of a pew at the back of the church, coat spread across the bench to reserve spots for all of them. Sherlock. He'd come. He'd said he would, but she hadn't been sure.

Sherlock reached for the baby carrier when they entered the pew and Mary passed Alice off with a silent groan of relief. At nearly a year old, Alice was getting too heavy to be carried in the seat like that, but Mary was reluctant to give it up because of its convenience, especially when she expected Alice to fall asleep while they were out. Right now she was wide awake as Sherlock unbuckled her and lifted her out of the carrier, but there was an added bonus: the empty carrier made an excellent barrier between the three of them and anyone who might want to share their pew.

The seats Sherlock had selected were not where Mary usually sat, but as she settled into the pew she saw people she recognized. Mr. and Mrs. Banks sat right in front of them—they always fussed over Alice when they saw her and this evening was no exception. They exclaimed over her tiny holiday dress and the silver bow in her fuzzy blond hair as Sherlock held her out for their inspection and Mary realized she needed to introduce everyone.

"This is my husband, John." Mary lifted her right hand to graze against the sleeve of John's coat.

"Welcome to St. Nicholas," Mrs. Banks said, and John smiled and nodded and shook hands with her and her husband. 

Mary turned to her left, to Sherlock. "And this is Sherlock." She would have been happy to include a qualifier with his name as well— _our partner, that would cover it_ —but she didn't know how he would react. The most recent evolution of the relationship between the three of them was still so new that she was afraid any misstep she made might scare him away. 

Or maybe not. Maybe he wasn’t going to be easily frightened away. He'd certainly proved willing to join their little family in more ways than she'd expected, even after inviting him into their bed. How could anyone have ever predicted that Sherlock would actually show up tonight, that he'd be waiting inside the church when they got here? He wasn't going to bolt on them now. She smiled and touched his elbow where it crooked to hold Alice, who was upright and gnawing contentedly on the collar of his suit jacket.

Sherlock tried to return Alice to her but Mary shook her head. She glanced down at everyone's feet and then pulled at the kneeler with her toes. It dropped into place on the floor and Mary knelt, closing her eyes, and offered a quick prayer of thanksgiving for all that she had.


	25. Christmas Morning

Every year, after they all went to the Christmas Eve service at St. Nicholas's, John and Mary invited Sherlock to spend the night at their house, and every year he declined. He certainly stayed over often enough during the rest of the year, but he felt he should give them their own time with Alice on Christmas morning. He would join them later in the day, piling into their car for the drive to his parents' house. Considering that it had been several years since anyone had been drugged or drunk themselves to the point of incoherence at Mum and Dad's, he found the routine to be quite satisfactory.

This year, however, as they left the church with carols still ringing in their ears, Mary had asked if he wanted to stay and Sherlock said yes. He caught the startled flinch that passed between her and John, and interpreted it correctly as genuine surprise rather than regret. But it was time, he knew, and he knew that they knew, if the small box with his name on it underneath their tree was any indication.

He was no help at all in putting Alice to bed on time; if anything, her crazed impatience for the imminent holiday seeped into his own subconscious and made him giddy with anticipation. Mary finally got her subdued while Sherlock helped John arrange Alice's gifts under the tree, pushing aside the presents for the adults that were already there.

When they were certain Alice was asleep, Mary and John and Sherlock shared a bottle of wine and a plate of biscuits and quickly progressed from cuddling to teasing to chasing one another into the master bedroom. Everyone was unusually energetic, especially when judged by the standards of a middle-aged trio who had had several years to grow accustomed to one another. Sherlock himself felt insatiable, invincible. By the time he finally collapsed, quivering with pleasure and release, John was halfway to sleep, and Mary not far behind. 

He watched the two of them succumb fully, then freed himself from the tangle of limbs—for short people, they both occupied a great deal of space in their sleep—and crept from their room. A quick peek at the tree, his eyes sliding past the pile of wrapped toys to the small, ring-sized box on the edge, and then he opened the door to the spare room. His room: they called it that, and he used it when he wanted to sleep and not lie awake observing the fall of Mary's hair across John's shoulder and the way John's fingers twitched against Sherlock's own ribs. He wasn't sure that he would sleep tonight, but he wanted some space; it felt like his last night alone.

He did sleep, though not for long. Well before the sun rose, Sherlock could hear Alice moving around in the room next door to his. She'd been informed that no adults could be woken before seven, which was the time she usually got up on school days, and he was surprised that she complied, though she was clearly awake before then. His phone read seven o'clock exactly when he heard her door creak open and the rush of her feet as she ran down the hall to her parents' room.

They almost passed him by. He could hear Alice whispering his name, and John and Mary telling her to let him sleep, and then there was a hand on his doorknob and all three of them spilled into his room, yawning and apologizing and jumping up onto the bed.

"It's Christmas! Wake up, it's Christmas!"

Sherlock opened his eyes and feigned sleepiness. "It can't be morning already. It's still dark out." He closed his eyes again and Alice's whole body thumped into his chest.

"It is morning though! It's time for presents!" She threw herself against him once more for good measure and then bounced off the bed again. "Come on!"

Sherlock grinned and sat up, catching the gazes of John and Mary as they attempted to rein Alice in before she exploded in joy. Nervous, they were both nervous, and he knew why, but they had nothing to fear. For himself, once he'd realized what was under the tree this year, he'd stopped worrying about what to buy and wrap for them. All he needed to give them was an answer. _Yes._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed these! [Click here for more Johnlockary](http://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=kudos_count&work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=112649&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=0&user_id=MissDavis) (mostly explicit)! Thanks!


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